Column: On Mother's Day, missing both my moms

Friday

May 11, 2018 at 3:00 AM

It’s been a bit difficult since my mother, Paula, died in early 2009 at 87. It’ll be doubly difficult this year as my other mother, Marilyn, died last August at 81. So, it’ll be a day of missing my two moms.

Jim SullivanContributing writer

This message landed in my email inbox last week: Mother’s Day is in one week. Get to shopping. In the local supermarket, the pre-recorded voice on the P.A. told me today that they could bake a Mother’s Day cake for me and I could personalize it.

Uh, no I’m not doing those things. I’m not looking forward to Mother’s Day this Sunday, and I know I’m not alone. For those of us who no longer have mothers, Sunday is not so much a day of celebration, but at its best, remembrance, and worst, sadness and grieving.

It’s been a bit difficult since my mother, Paula, died in early 2009 at 87. It’ll be doubly difficult this year as my other mother, Marilyn, died last August at 81. So, it’ll be a day of missing my two moms.

Let me explain: Marilyn (a pseudonym) gave birth to me in August 1956 in Bangor, Maine. I was adopted by Paula and Francis Sullivan shortly thereafter. I knew Paula 52 years,

I didn’t meet Marilyn until 2009, coincidentally not long after Paula died. Legally, until then, I had no access to my original birth certificate, but Maine’s laws changed and, suddenly, I did. Just fill out a form at City Hall and, presto. I’d been given the name Keith at birth.

Finding my birth parents had never been an obsession with me. I understood I was adopted at a very young age and the way my parents framed it, I was “chosen.” By them. Special that way. And I was fine with that and, in fact, it gave me a uniqueness among my childhood friends. It also tilted the nature vs. nurture argument way to the nurture side … because I had no nature to compare it to.

And then I did. Now, I understand the mix, the ineffable balance of the two.

With the help and encouragement of my wife, Roza, and Adam Pertman, a former Boston Globe colleague who’d written a series on adoptee rights, I contacted a search agency north of Boston. They found my mother’s address within two weeks. She and her husband lived less than an hour away.

We first corresponded by mail, then by phone. Within a few months, we met for lunch and that’s something we did about once a month, a private table in a local restaurant. This, mind you, was the first person I ever met who was related to me. Fascinating to me – from the emotional connection to the physical traits – and to her: So, this is what her son became or what became of her son.

One thing we got out of the way right away: Some adoptees resent the mother that gave them up, feeling discarded or unwanted. It was the opposite for me. She gave birth to me; I intrinsically knew it couldn’t have been an easy decision – abortion was not legal, but available – and I had no negative thoughts about the circumstances of my conception. Aren’t most us, really, “accidents of birth?”

I was warmly embraced by her and welcomed into the family, by her husband and my two half-sisters, as well. Backyard cookouts, Christmas, Easter, Mother’s Day. But I’m not using Marilyn’s real name because, when I was born, well, those were different times. We live now in an era of, often enough, open adoption. Not then. There was a stigma to being an unwed mother and, while many in our circle knew of our relationship after I surfaced, not everyone did. Hence the obfuscation, even now, done out of respect.

There was, almost immediately, an ease of rapport, a similar wit. We joked about whether she would be considered Mom Version 1.0 or Mom Version 2.0. (A case could be made for either.) We discovered we both loved crime thrillers and were Michael Connelly fans. I’d interviewed and written about Connelly. She met him in Florida at a reading and proudly told him of her son’s connection to him.

I found out she’d once lived in Allston, barely a few blocks from where I had lived many years later. Her family had owned a business in Somerville, not far from where I moved when I left Maine at 22.

Because of Marilyn, I spoke more about Paula – and my dad, who died in 1977 - than I had in years. She wanted to know everything. Paula was in the Navy, served outside London in WWII during the blitz as one of the WAVES (Women Accepted for Voluntary Emergency Service). She wore a cross-and-chain with her name and the date, 1943, embossed on the back. When Marilyn and I established our relationship, I gave it to her. She cried. I cried. She said, “Of course, you’ll get this back.” I looked at her, puzzled. “No, it’s yours,” I said. “I want you to have it. I don’t want it back.” She gave me a wry look waiting for me to comprehend. “Oh,” I said after a few seconds, “You mean after you die …” And, sadly enough, I got that cross back in August.

Marilyn was certain she could feel Paula’s presence, her love, her joy in our finding each other. They were both Catholic and had a belief in heaven. Marilyn hoped upon her death she would truly meet Paula.

In 2007, Paula suffered a severe stroke and moved to a VA nursing home in Bangor, Maine. She slowed mentally and physically. Her communication skills diminished. She’d been vital and feisty into her 80s but, at 86, said to me: "Did you ever think I would become an old lady so quickly?" I didn't know what to say.

She spent half a year in hospice care at the VA. The decline from going into hospice – she was aware of what it was and agreed with the decision – to where she ended up was a gradual downhill slide. Wrenching. In time, the dementia became full-blown. Did she know me at the end? Maybe, but it often took a nurse’s prompt.

Marilyn was youthful in appearance and outlook. Her vibrancy and optimism were contagious. But she suffered from emphysema and a variety of heart ailments over the past three years. Operations. Hospitalization. I visited her at the hospital two days before she was moved to hospice care in another facility. I held her hand. She looked beautiful, still. We had a heart-to-heart, made constant eye contact. She rallied, but then flagged after about 45 minutes. We thought she had a couple of months left, but she died just three days later. I was there, too. Held her hand again as she lay, as they say, “in transition.”

Goodbye Marilyn. Goodbye again Paula. I’ll be thinking of you both on Sunday. No promises, but I’ll try to focus on fond remembrance, not the sadness and grief of missing you both.

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